The Togetherness Of Strangers
by Scar-Faced Hundred
Summary: sup•port  suh-pohrt  n.:  something that serves as a foundation, prop, brace, or stay. Also: something that John Watson didn't realise he would have.    Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.


For approximately the first three weeks After (_this is how he thinks – everything is Before and After, now_), John Watson is alone and lost. Perpetually stuck in this haze of not-knowing-not-understanding-_oh-god-don't-let-me-understand, _a fog of grief and pain and anger and horror and incomprehension. He is lost in the darkness, a darkness he has glimpsed before, except this time there is no pulsing light to lead him back to the sunshine that he can remember so vividly upon his face.

At the beginning of the fourth week, he realises that the darkness has receded the tiniest fraction – now, instead of being totally blind, he is able to see in the shadows just the smallest amount. It is not much – only enough to make out vague shapes and blurred silhouettes (_he tries not to remember how his world Before was so full of brightness and colour_), but it is enough to get by. Enough to move around, to make himself presentable (_why? what was the point, now?_), to pick up a couple of the myriad of bits of him that had fallen to the floor, shattered the same way bones would if they were hurled from the top of a four-storey building to their broken demise on the unforgiving concrete below _oh go stop thinking __**now**_, and the first of those pieces that he examines critically and detachedly is Mrs Hudson.

He distinctly recalls from his stint in the dark two facts. One – that he did not cook. And two – that he somehow managed to eat. A brief glance in the refrigerator (_ignore the now-rotting severed head, ignore the bloody thumbs in the vegetable drawer, ignore it all_) reveals that he is in fact well-supplied with food that he definitely did not make. Conclusion: Mrs Hudson, as she is wont to do, has been taking very good care of him (_don't think about the fact that it used to be him doing the caring and someone else being cared for, don't think don't think_). Thanks are probably in order, he decides.

The good doctor applies his knowledge of socially expected human hygiene to himself, distantly noting that he needs to retrieve his hospital-issue cane from where he stashed it in a closet(_where it has sat, unneeded,_ _since his first chase with __**no stop right there**_), before removing himself from the apartment for the first time since the funeral (_what did we say about thinking, foolish boy?_), leaving the door open a crack, descending the seventeen steps to the bottom floor, leaning heavily – resignedly – on the cane, and knocking quietly on the door to 221A. There is silence for a moment before he hears someone stand, floorboards creaking as they approach the door, the soft _clop clop clop_ of very familiar feet in very familiar shoes, and the door opens.

Mrs Hudson's face is a study in surprise as she realises who her visitor is.

"Oh, John dear, come inside, love. Here, sit down, I'll put on the kettle, shall I–"

Her temperate voice continues to murmur, the soft endearments and suggestions filling the room with a placid warmth as she ushers her guest inside. In under a minute, the soldier is sitting (_only slightly hunched_) at his landlady's kitchen table, the cane propped against the chair and a mug of hot tea cupped in his hands. He lets Mrs Hudson chatter gently for the both of them for a while before he takes the opportunity presented by a slight lull in the one-sided conversation to deliver his message.

"I saw I had food in the fridge. That was… that was very nice." He clears his throat. "Thank you. For that."

The lady beams. "I shall most certainly pass on your thanks, John, dear. It was a lovely thing, making meals for you like that–" She cuts herself off and smiles widely, earnestly, delighted that her tenant has not only revived himself enough to make it downstairs, make it to her, but to _talk _again (_the last time he spoke within another's hearing was that last visit to the grave – no stop that thought right __**there**_) – she had thought, for a while there, that she was going to lose both her precious boys in one go, but no, no, things might be getting just the tiniest bit better, now.

John lets the silence dangle for a moment in the air between his confused frown and Mrs Hudson's now teary-eyed smile before he voices the thought that deepens the fixed creases between his brows.

"But, uh, if it wasn't _you_ that put them there, then who–?"

The dear woman completes his thought for him. "–Brought in the food? Why, there's been a little group of them, five or six people that knock on my door and give me something to give to you. One every morning, in rotations. Isn't it thoughtful?"

The good doctor is immediately suspicious, on his guard against outsiders, the way he was before he met (_nope, not going there, not touching that with a bargepole_), and the way he always will be, now. "Whatever do they do that for?"

Mrs Hudson's eyes are full of some soft emotion. "Why, because they care, don't they?"

"About me." His tone has moved from suspicious to scathing. The landlady blinks.

"Is that so hard to believe? It was all very… public, John. Everything that happened. I suppose they thought of how _they_ would feel, if it were them, and wanted to help."

When John keeps his own council for a minute after that, Mrs Hudson adds, "Like I said, John dear. They care."

The soldier's silence continues, but his frown his gone, and he places his teacup – stone-cold, now, and half-full – gently on Mrs Hudson's Formica tabletop, stands – retrieving that _damned cane_ – nods politely, smiles (_they pretend it isn't strained_), walks out her door, and slowly and silently ascends the stairs to 221B. There he sits, and thinks. He meditates and ruminates and cogitates and reflects and _thinks_.

And, in the morning, he is awake with the sun (_for the first time since… __**nope**__._) and standing at the window, gazing – unseeingly, for the most part – down at the almost-empty street, vacant but for the occasional bustling suit, scarf tight around their neck against the morning chill as they hurry to the Tube. As the morning wears on, the footpaths slowly fill, the sun rises higher in the grey sky, the increasing sunlight takes the edge off the biting cold – and a stranger holding a covered dish approaches the door of 221 Baker Street.

John isn't sure what he thought he was going to do, but suddenly the cane is in his hand and he is halfway down the stairs, and he can hear the stranger knocking on the door. As he opens it, he vaguely notices Mrs Hudson silhouetted in her doorway, watching his movements – and then the door is open, and he can't really remember the last time he breathed in London's air instead of 221B's, except there is someone looking at him in surprise and he focuses his attention on them instead of on the sudden breeze on his face.

The stranger is a young woman – perhaps mid-twenties, rather ordinary-looking – whose mouth makes a shocked little 'O' as she sees who has answered her knock. John just looks at her, blankly expectant.

"Dr Watson!" she stammers, then thrusts the plate forward. "Uhm, here. These are for you."

He reaches out, takes the dish. "Thank you. And thank you for the others, also."

The stranger nods her head jerkily. "You're welcome. I'll, uh, tell the others you said so." She twists her hands together, gives a half-aborted wave, and steps back, turning a little as if to leave. The good doctor responds in kind, smiling the obligatory smile as he turns away.

"Oh, and, uh, Dr Watson?" Her voice is stronger and clearer – she's a few steps further away now, but she's facing him again, hands deep in her pockets and looking earnest. The good doctor turns back to her, looking at her anticipatorily through the partially-closed door.

"We would very much like you to know that you are not alone." She smiles, bobs her heads again, then turns away from him and walks down Baker Street with the slightest of bounces in her step.

He closes the door, places the covered plate carefully down, leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and breathes. Something inside him picks itself up and dusts itself off and starts putting itself back together again, because John Watson was never really alone. There are people whose lives he has touched, whose lives _they_ have touched, who will remember thatglorious, intelligent, idiot man (_SherlockSherlockSherlock!_) long after others have said he is gone.

o0o0oOo0o0o

**A/N:** Long time no see, guys! And in a whole other fandom, no less. Goodness me. :)

Anyway, you have reached the end of the first chapter of 'The Togetherness Of Strangers', but not the end of the fic, because – gasp – this will be multi-chaptered, believe it or not. I've got a very rough outline for about four more chapters, but I am calling on **you**, dear reader, for your opinion. The lynchpin of this fanfiction will be the absence of Sherlock bringing people together – mostly John and strangers, but potentially John and another character or maybe some OC action. So! If you have any ideas about random moments of Sherlock-related kindness between people, drop me a line and I will try very hard to make it a chapter for you. :) I would love to hear from you!

I wouldn't expect an update until about next week, though, as I have a maths test that I really ought to be studying for (Oops). Also, I have beta'd this (But it's late. Let's assume I missed something.), but I have _not_ had it Brit-picked. Now, New Zealand's an ex-colony, so I thought I wouldn't need it, but I was as surprised as the next non-Brit when I realised that when John talked about Sherlock forgetting his pants, he **did not mean his trousers**. So if you pick up any mistakes, let me know and I can fix it right up.

Please leave a review! :)

DFTBA,

~Jo


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